Ya 


le  University  Prize  Poem 
1918 


AT    LOS  ANGELES 


YALE  UNIVERSITY 

PRIZE  POEM 

1918 

THE  TEMPERING: 
LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTEBOOK 

By  HOWARD  SWAZEY  BUCK 


YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 
1918 


PS 


• 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  poem  received  the  twentieth  award  of  the  prize 
offered  by  Professor  Albert  Stanburrough  Cook  of  Yale 
University  for  the  best  unpublished  verse,  the  Committee 
of  Award  consisting  of  Professors  Wilbur  L.  Cross,  of 
Yale  University,  Frederick  Tupper,  of  the  University  of 
Vermont,  and  Charles  H.  Whitman,  of  Rutgers  College. 


2351.39 


A  Call  at  Night 


Far  into  dreamless  sleep  a  near  voice  creeping: 

'To  Poste  C.  Glas — the  road  to  Avocourt.' 

Ah,  weary,  now,  be  sure, 

To  lift  tired  body,  stiff  and  drenched  with  sleeping, 

And  then  steal  forth  as  to  a  lover's  tryst, 

Down  the  dim  streets  where  o'erthrown  walls  sit  weeping, 

A  ruined  city,  in  the  moonlit  mist. 

Then  out  through  fields,  and  the  cool  stars  are  o'er  ; 

But  here  the  mist  hangs  like  the  earth's  white  breath, 

Muffling  afar  those  droning  guns  of  death, 

The  sleepless  murmur  of  a  tortured  shore. 

Over  those  ghostly  fields  a  mile  or  more. 
Then  silently  the  forest's  prison-door 
Closes  behind  us,  blotting  the  last  gleam 
Of  light  to  guide  us.     Now  all  noises  seem 
Magnified  greatly ;  the  road  under  us 
Shifts  sickeningly,  a  passage  perilous 

5 


In  gloom  alive  with  voices ;  vague,  near  calls ; 

Sound  as  of  falling  torrent  that  ne'er  falls. 

A  skidding  truck  sinks  helpless  in  the  mire. 

A  whining  shriek — cries  of  'Take  care,  take  care !' 

The  white  mists  leap  to  sudden  seething  fire  ; 

The  trees  stand  black  and  gaunt.    A  shuddering  shock 

Wrenches  the  old  earth's  ribbed,  unbending  rock, 

Yea,  seems  to  snap  her  backward,  broken  sheer, 

Screaming  and  helpless  in  the  darkness  there. 

Still  whispering  steel  tries  the  wide  atmosphere, 

And  strikes  in  the  soft  mud  around  us  here. 

Then  stillness  falls. 

We  hear  the  stray  leaves  flutter 
Softly  around  us,  whispers  that  would  utter 
We  know  not  what — waiting.    The  forest  drips. 
Now  for  some  moments  no  word  parts  our  lips. 
Then,  'Well,  I  guess  that's  all  for  now.'    And  stiff, 
Especially  in  the  knees,  we  stand  straight-backed, 
Survey  the  helpless  camion,  wondering  if 
Another  truck  can  do  the  rescue-act. 
'We'd  like  to  help,  of  course.' — 'Oh,  no,  no,  no! 
Why,  it  is  nothing — every  night  it's  so — 
One  anyway  gets  stuck.    We'll  be  all  right.  .  .  . 
Been  a  long  time  in  France?  .  .  .  Ah.  .  .  .  Well,  good  night.' 
'Good  night.' 


The  forest's  gloom  is  left  once  more. 
Up  a  long  slope  we  softly  move.    O'erhead 
The  bright  stars  shine  as  if  there  were  no  war, 
And  at  that  moment  no  one  wept  her  dead. 
Out  past  a  ruined  farm  left  desolate 
Amidst  its  riven  orchard,  blackened,  gaunt. 
The  muffled  guns  seem  like  a  boaster's  taunt, 
There  in  the  sea  of  mists  that  stagnant  wait, 
Shrouding  the  valley — some  vast,  blind,  lost  shore, 
Wrapped  in  its  lonely,  unremitting  roar. 

A  voice  in  sleep,  insistent,  low,  obscure : 
'To  Poste  C.  Glas — the  road  to  Avocourt.' 

Le  Mort 

Here  on  this  stretcher  now  he  coldly  lies, 
A  burlap  sack  hiding  his  beaten  head. 
The  idle  hands  seem  heedless  lumps  of  lead, 

And  the  stiff  fingers  of  abnormal  size. 

I  almost  stooped  to  brush  away  the  flies, 
Musing  if  yet  she  knew  that  he  was  dead. 

Gayly  laughing  they  brought  him 

Up  the  dusty  road, 
Chatting  as  if  they  thought  him 

But  a  luckless  load, 

7 


And  laid  him  here  beside  this  scarred  old  tree, 
Till  some  death-wain  should  chance  by  luckily: 
Those  wagons  carry  back  the  honored  dead. 

But,  necessarily, 
On  the  return  trip  they  will  carry  bread. 

All  day  he  lay  there,  and  all  night, 

Wrapped  in  the  shining  mists  that  swim 

Along  the  ground.     The  sullen  might 

Of  thunder  shaking  the  earth  shook  not  him. 

And,  strangely  lightening  through  the  mist  that  crept, 
Moving  like  some  slow,  luminous,  foaming  sea, 
Washing  black  shores  of  twisted  tarn  and  tree, 
The  flaring  star-shells  here 
Over  his  lonely  bier, 

White  meteor-tapers,  his  pale  vigil  kept. 


Night-Work 


Along  that  lane  of  soft,  uncertain  light, 
Beacon  of  dust  in  a  blank  sea  of  night, 
Leaning  far  forward,  ears,  eyes,  hand  intent 
For  sound  or  sight  out  of  that  blackness  sent. 
Only  slow-thudding  thunder  on  our  heels; 
Dull  spasm  of  guns  that  less  one  hears  than  feels, 


Shocking  the  air  with  long  insucking  breath — 

Till  the  strange  silence  after  falls  like  death. 

Now  the  held  shriek  of  'doucement,  doucement,'  groan 

Of  some  soft,  bleeding,  ticketed  being,  prone 

On  the  slung  stretchers  swaying  hideously, 

Till  night  is  kind,  that  eyes  may  never  see. 

Suddenly  vague,  uncertain  noises  start 

Out  of  the  blackness,  stopping  the  schooled  heart: 

Stamping  patter  of  endless  coming  teams, 

Voices,  a  curse,  grit  of  a  wheel  that  seems 

Scraping  our  very  hub-cap,  shrinking  by ; 

Guns,  carriages,  munitions,  trucks  of  supply, 

Upthundering,  sweeping — vulturous  wings  that  swoop 

Darkly  out  of  a  dream,  shadows  that  stoop 

From  some  grim,  vaguely  dark,  discolored  sky. 

Lo,  like  a  dream  they  now  have  hurried  by. 

Look  back:  once  for  a  moment  are  they  seen 

Topping  the  ridge;  a  star-shell's  whitish  green 

Uplifts,  soars,  wavers,  falls — and  all  is  gone. 

The  soft  penumbra  of  the  road  shifts  on 

Beneath  us;  once  more  on  the  tingling  brain 

The  motor's  throb  sinks  like  an  old  refrain. 

One  of  the  swaying  wounded  moans  in  pain. 


Impromptu 


Back  with  our  Division  from  the  front — 

Of  course  the  inevitable  affront 

That  had  to  come.    Rest's  welcome  enough — and  yet, 

Nothing  to  do  now  but  just  sit  and  sweat — 

No  use  to  any  one  by  any  chance 

In  a  nasty  little  hole  of  northern  France. 

So  we  must  think  of  friends  and  others  dear, 

Read  their  damned  letters  worshiping  us  here, 

As  if  we'd  done  something  to  make  us  boast. 

And  now  en  repos!  Caesar's  well-known  ghost! 

Winifred,  don't  you  wish  that  I  were  back? 
God  knows  7  do.    Just  had  a  bad  attack, 
Worse  even  than  usual,  as  I  lay  alone 
In  the  warm  field  here,  let  the  sun  soak  through 
Limbs  all  relaxed — just  thinking — oh,  of  you — 
And  everything.  .  .  .  The  wind  came  down, 
Laughing,  winning,  sweeping  me  free: 
10 


Once  more  the  mind's  exultant  certainty ; 
Again  I  seemed  to  see 

The  river  sparkling  there  by  Bucksport  town, 
The  rotting  wharves,  the  soggy  dory-slips, 
The  lazy,  idle  fitting-out  of  ships — 
Haunts  that  I  knew — 
And  you. 

Alas,  the  chocolate  peppermints  I  bought  up  street, 
And  brought  down  there  to  eat — 
Perched  each  upon  the  favorite  rotten  pile, 
So  dangling  down  our  feet — 
Nay,  do  not  smile ! 

Hearing  the  fearful  flowing  of  the  tides 
Round  our  old  haunted  hulk's  ingulping  sides; 
Till  twilight  came, 

Hushing  the  river  and  the  murmuring  mill, 
Suddenly  shading  black  the  opposite  hill, 
While  the  slant  rays  with  a  warm,  quiet  flame 
Over  the  drowsing  village  lingered  still. 
Supper  at  your  house,  and  the  things  you  made! 
The  plans  for  trips!    To-morrow  it  would  be 
Down  to  Castine, 

Along  the  Docian  shore  so  barren,  lean, 
Till,  bursting  from  the  shimmering  white  birch-glade, 
Lo,  the  blue  firs  above  the  blue,  blue  sea, 
Toppling  from  rocks  whose  feet 

11 


What  snowy  breakers  beat ! 

And  the  salt  air 

Douses  our  dust-choked  lungs  with  wine, 

Draws  its  cool,  tugging  fingers  through  our  hair — 

Song  of  the  sea  and  sun,  road  and  a  ride  divine ! 

You'll  sit  in  front  ?    Good !  good  to  be  alive 

To-morrow,  you  beside  me,  as  we  drive ! 

Oh,  I'll  be  there  for  you  at  half-past  nine ; 

I'll  see  the  others  of  the  crowd ;  we'll  meet — 

Say,  at  the  foot  of  Franklin  street; 

And  don't  forget  the  deviled  eggs,  my  dear! 

Good  night,  sleep  tight  .  .  . 

And  I  am  here. 

O  Lord,  when  working  it's  not  half  so  bad ; 
But  this — this  makes  me  selfish — and — damned  mad. 


Inaction 

No  word  to-day. 

How  the  days  lag  like  very  weeks  away, 

Listless  and  careless  if  they  move  or  stay! 

Ah,  now  to  me  this  envious  afternoon, 

Blinding  the  earth  with  smiles; 

The  village-square,  the  fountain's  falling  tune; 

White  dazzling  walls,  red  roofs'  eternal  tiles, 


And  over  them  green,  wavering  tree-tops,  cool 
As  the  slow-loitering,  shadowy  pool 
Beneath  the  bridge  where  children  hang  by  hours, 
Dreaming  of  green-eyed  dragons,  dungeon-towers; 
Ah,  these  to  me  are  wasted  treasures  all. 
Only  I  hear  insistent  voices  call, 
Questions,  and  never  answers;  and  no  word 
From  you.     Surely  to-day  I  should  have  heard. 

Oh,  I  know  well — and  true,  too,  more  or  less — 
What  you  would  say  to  soothe  this  restlessness : 
'We  serve,  though  waiting.' 

And  the  labor's  there  ;- 
And  others  in  the  intolerable  glare 
Die,  horribly  die,  for  things  that  we  hold  dear! 
O  faces  drawing  ever  near,  more  near, 
Till  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  bear 
The  love  of  your  dear  lips,  the  questioning  eyes, 
And  frame  the  perfect,  passionless  replies — 
It  is  your  lineaments  I  trace 
In  every  stricken  face; 
Your  breaking  voice  that  cries 
Over  the  wretched  things  that  were  so  bright. 
When,  when  will  darkness  rise? 
When  comes  the  light? 

13 


Surely,  if  ever,  these  the  dawning  hours! 

There  is  a  stir  throughout  the  land ; 

The  legions  of  Verdun  advance 

Once  more  for  truth  and  France; 

The  splintered  woods  of  Avocourt  are  ours, 

Gray  ghosts  of  forests  gone; 

And,  where  the  Julian  Alps  like  giants  stand, 

Italy  still  pours  on, 

The  day  of  Austrian  overlordship  done! 

And  many  a  younger  son 

From  over  sea — 

But  a  pale  promise  of  what  things  may  be — 

Adds  to  the  faith  of  stricken  earth's  salvation 

Not  the  mere  coming  of  an  untried  nation, 

Not  the  despair  of  hollow  Germany, 

But  the  clear  clarion  of  a  liberty 

Mightier  to  overthrow  no  tottering  Czar 

Than  all  the  arrays  of  men  and  millions  are ! 

Ah,  if  this  were  indeed  the  end,  the  end ! 

Bitter  it  is  to  pause  here  patiently, 

Hoping  and  fearing;  the  long  hours  to  spend 

Brooding  on  thoughts  of  home,  each  word 

That  lately  you  have  heard ; 

Counting  the  days  till  you  can  hope  again 

To  hear  from  Maine. 

14 


The  Watch-Tower  of  the  Oise 

I  could  not  sleep. 

Slowly  and  sullenly  afar 

The  muffled  thudding  guns  that  never  sleep 

Pound  out  their  insane  litany  of  war. 

The  morning  mists  are  deep, 

And  the  wet  bushes  splash  through,  cool  to  the  skin ; 

The  stinging  nettles  creep 

Like  fire  upon  ice,  as  by  I  leap 

Impatient  with  strange  doubts  within, 

Eager  to  gain  the  lonely  tower, 

And  watch  alone,  like  some  wild  druid  seer, 

The  quiet,  trembling  hour 

When  dawn  is  near. 

• 

The  woods  are  left,  the  fields  break  wide. 

Ah,  truly,  what  a  prospect  here 

From  this  gray  tower-top,  here  on  the  mountain-side! 

Slowly  the  subtle  distances 

Resolve  themselves  in  misty  slope  on  slope, 

15 


Where  the  white  coiling  rivers  float  and  grope 

On  soft,  uncertain  shores.     Now  a  dim  breeze 

Wraps  the  old  walls  in  shivering  melody ; 

Cool,  cool  on  cheeks,  and  lips,  and  eyes,  and  hair. 

Stark  to  the  right,  a  line  of  staggering  trees 

Stand  gauntly  there, 

Like  ancient  sentinels  stricken  hideously, 

Their  ghosts,  a  fearful  legion, 

Haunting  the  lean  fields  of  this  outland  region. 

Somewhere  beneath  the  bosom  of  this  hill 

The  little  village  sleeps, 

While  the  white  fog  slow  creeps: 

Mothers  and  wives,  old  men — not,  not  their  sons. 

Hark,  in  the  dawn  so  still: 

Again  the  distant  guns. 

A  streak  of  rose 

Like  the  sweet  shimmering  verge  of  waking; 

Some  dewy  petal  shaking  .  .  . 

The  shimmering  radiance  grows; 

Yes,  it  is  day. 

Like  a  thin,  shadowy  spire  the  Eiffel  Tower  shows, 

Scarce  forty  miles  away. 

Here  from  this  Tower  of  the  Oise  to-day 

I  can  see  Paris. 

16 


They, 

Ere  the  dread  Marne,  nearer  than  this, 
Saw  and  believed ;  ah,  nearer  far, 
And  sweeping  forward  o'er  their  weaker  foes, 
Till  like  a  landmark  lost  this  tower  rose, 
Splendid  and  beckoning  them !     Brave,  brave  the  bliss 
Then  to  have  been  a  German  born 
And  looked,  as  on  this  morn, 

Where  Paris  smiled  and  smiles!     Most  valiant  youths, 
Mayhap  they  never  showed  you  books  of  truths, 
But  told  you  lies,  and  led  you  blindly  by, 
Thus  wretchedly  to  die ; 
Gave  you  the  law  that  was  not  for  one  man 
Nor  nation,  but  a  hideous  thing,  whose  span 
Of  life  must  needs  be  nearly  done; 
Put  in  your  hand 
Some  iron-cold  command, 
And  in  your  heart  no  dimly  answering  law; 
Made  you  no  more  the  husband,  father,  son, 
But  bade  you  obey,  obey,  whate'er  the  spirit  saw. 
O  blind  obedience,  blind,  purblind, 
Till  surely  now  you  find 
What  fatal  thing  is  this  that  you  have  done! 
But  is  it  well 

To  call  these  children  sons  of  hell? 
Surely  you  know  even  now  the  prisoner  sees, 

17 


When  cheating  dreams  have  set  him  sadly  free, 

Dear  and  loved  faces — screwed  up  hatefully? 

There  stood  a  lad  last  night  outside  the  gate, 

Prussian — yea,  even  one  of  these! — 

Delivered  up  from  chaos,  one 

Snatched  from  the  hand  of  death,  death  at  Verdun; 

Dazed,  stunned,  and  left  disconsolate 

'Neath  the  too  awful  weight 

Of  waking  to  the  tryst  his  country  kept — 

Better  have  swiftly  fallen,  sweetly  slept. 

And,  till  the  fields  grew  dim, 

I  stood  and  talked  with  him. 

His  low  voice  seemed  more  mournful  deep  to  me 

Than  the  dim  murmuring  sea 

Instealing  over  shoals  in  silken  swell. 

Once  only  an  unspeakable 

And  breaking  agony 

Submissive  sadness  could  no  more  compel, 

Broke  forth  in  anguish:  'Thank  God,  God, 

That  brother  is  too  young,  too  young,  too  young!' 

Oh,  that  that  word  were  flung 

With  blind  and  burning  tears  afar ! 

Sadder  than  France's  woes  so  truly  sung, 

Germany's  adoration  in  this  war, 

The  seed  of  discord's  deeds 

Now  spread  o'er  earth  like  flaming  wild-fire  weeds ! 

18 


No  king  nor  country,  nor  ideal  state 

Can  ever  consecrate 

This  torn  and  trampled,  flesh-bespattered  sod ! 

Only  for  one  thing  can  this  stricken  age 

Its  bestial  battle  wage — 

That  never  upon  earth  again  , 

Shall  fall  this  stain; 

Else  are  the  lives  and  shames,  the  splendid  givings  vain. 

Shall  it  not  be 

As  in  this  hour,  quiet,  calm,  and  free? 

The  dawn,  it  is  the  dawn ; 

The  crimson  poppies  blow 

In  shimmering  fields  below. 

Oh,  upon  earth  there  shall  be  no  such  woe, 

When  muffling  mists  are  gone, 

I  know,  I  know! 

The  wind  shouts  paeans  through  the  trees'  strong  limbs, 

Trembling  so  stately  in  the  morning's  glow; 

And  in  my  heart  are  unheard,  stirring  hymns. 

Let  the  great  guns  roar  out, 

The  hideous  pageant  roll, 

That  at  the  last  the  nations,  saved,  may  shout, 

For  ever,  ever  ends  this  nightmare  of  the  soul ! 


19 


September  7 


Running,  running,  staggering,  torture-sped, 
Bringer  of  fearful  tidings  came. 
His  face  was  like  a  horror-laughing  flame, 
His  knees  were  crimson  with  undarkened  red 
From  comrades  dying,  or  already  dead. 
Gasping  he  gave  his  message,  and  we  fled 
Down  the  lean,  barren,  shell-combed  road, 
His  face  before  us  as  a  living  goad. 

There  by  the  ditch  we  found  them,  as  he  said. 

Blindly  the  heedless  thunders  broke 

With  yelling  laughter  up  the  summer  sky ; 

And  rocks  and  trees  were  idly  tossed  on  high. 

We  lifted  them,  the  broken,  moaning  men, 

And  those  that  never  spoke, 

And  staggered  back  that  glaring  way  again. 

A  bleeding  brother  ever,  ever  nigh, 
Days,  days  and  nights.     The  curious  gold  ring; 
His  hand's  strange  warmth:  until  the  day  I  die 
I  know  I  shall  remember  everything. 

20 


Robert  Hall,  killed  September  12 

I  know  there  is  no  word  at  all 
To  say  about  you  now,  Bob  Hall. 
We  found  the  partly  written  letter, 
And  mailed  it  to  your  mother — better 
It  had  not  been.    'T  is  queer  to  see 
You  resting  here  so  peacefully, 
'Mid  alien  crosses.    Row  on  row 
Over  the  gentle  slope  they  go.  ... 
And  you  alone  .  .  .  that  is  not  so. 
We  knew  Death  could  not  always  miss 
Our  lips  in  his  blind,  wandering  kiss; 
And  you  he  touched.    Yet  not  the  less 
Was  it  the  lightning's  suddenness. 


21 


Verdun  by  Moonlight 

Past  the  gray  citadel  to  the  dead  city, 

Dead  in  the  moonlight,  and  its  bones  were  white, 

A  skeleton  so  old  it  asked  no  pity; 

White  walls  outfacing  the  slow-dreaming  skies, 

And  in  their  pallid  faces  endless  eyes, 

And  gaping  mouths  that  shouted  as  we  passed 

Down  lonely  ringing  streets  that  Autumn  night. 

The  stores  stood  there;  the  silent  theatre; 
The  banks,  the  dark  hotels;  occasionally 
The  gutted  wrecks  of  what  once  used  to  be 
Office  or  dwelling — all  one  moonlit  blur 
Of  dreaming  death,  silent  and  vacant,  vast 
In  hush  of  waiting.     Some  dread  pestilence 
Seemed  to  have  swept  the  unknown  people  hence, 
Leaving  their  city  like  a  curious  shell 
Of  blanching  hues  and  corridors  carven  well, 
Broken  a  little  by  the  blundering  sea. 
22 


At  Brocourt  Hospital 

I  had  been  writing  letters  late  that  night, 
How  I  had  seen  Verdun,  the  city  dead. 
A  blanket  o'er  the  doorway  masked  our  light 
From  aeroplanes  low  droning  overhead — 
Moonlight  marauders  from  our  friends  across. 
Something  strong  gave  the  blanket-mask  a  toss, 
Flinging  it  in  and  up.    The  opening  rilled 
With  bright  and  solid  gold;  and  all  things  came 
Dancing  and  hiding  in  the  leaping  flame. 
And  then  faintly  it  seemed  the  shrapnel  shrilled, 
Like  elfin  horns,  slitting  the  dull  wood  through; 
And  on  the  roof  the  rocks  beat  a  tattoo. 
Then  all  was  deaf  and  still.    The  air  was  blue; 
And  from  the  wreckage  people  crawled  away; 
And  clearly  in  the  moonlight  others  lay, 
Quietly  sleeping,  heeding  not  the  affray. 


23 


After  France 

All  day  the  dizzy  billows  rolled 

Against  our  lurching  side; 
And  the  wind  sang  till  the  brain  rang 

With  a  wild  song  and  wide. 

It  took  the  rigging  for  its  harp, 
And  an  old  plaint  outflung. 

My  eyes  were  wet  with  the  tugging  wind- 
Had  ever  I  been  young? 

It  was  not  possible,  not  possible, 

We  soon  should  see  again 
The  faces  and  the  forms  beloved, 

The  woods  and  fields  of  Maine! 

Yet  I  have  seen ;  heard  the  still  trees 

Retell  tales  often  told ; 
Cut  cords  of  wood,  and  laughed  at  home 

More  gayly  than  of  old. 

24 


Mother  and  father,  sister — oh, 

Sweet  as  relief  of  pain ! 
And  the  magic  days  in  the  Autumn-tide 

When  we  knew  the  roads  of  Maine ! 

But  now,  it  seems  I  was  not  there. 

Those  common  weeks  to  me 
Again  are  brave  and  strange  and  fair 

As  olden  chivalry. 


Troops  to  Sea 


Only  when  you  are  sleeping, 
And  alone  the  great  ships  lie, 

Breathing  like  fabled  monsters 
Their  slow  breath  to  the  sky, 

And  the  world  has  waned  to  a  shadow, 

We  clear  and  put  to  sea. 
Soft  in  the  darkness  we  pass  you, 

Lady  of  Liberty. 

The  loose  ice  gently  crashes 

Meeting  our  moving  prow. 
Never,  of  course,  you  know  it, 

But  we  are  leaving  now. 

25 


235139 


And  we  must  press  in  the  darkness 
To  the  rails,  a  whispering  throng, 

Each  in  the  darkness  seeing 
Clearly  whose  love  is  strong. 

You  will  look  out  in  the  morning, 
And  simply  we  shall  not  be. 

Soft  in  the  darkness  we  passed  you, 
Lady  of  Liberty. 


26 


^.Young'Research  Library 

PS536  .Y12p  1918 


L  009  502  242  2 


.  Y  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


